Deny The Throne
:::(Takes place before meeting Aizen) The sky was bleek, the air rugged and sharp. The once tension in the sky cooled, ease set in and calmed the sandy dunes. The moon was high and shone in the dead of night, filling the radius with a dim yellow light that somehow radiated throughout. Once blood-curdling cries setteled and all became still; hulking lumps lay in masses scattered across the land, slowly vaporizing and fading from existence. No blood, screams or otherwise resounded any longer - utter silence invoked by utter fear. What had transpired wreathed the entity's present and raved the proximity, having been dealt a storm of cascading energy. Now, all was quiet; not serene as tension was still high, so high and dense it couldn't be cut with a knife. The broad, lean physique of a brown-haired apathy instilling man ominously strolled into view. Beside him, a young, skinny blonde woman. Both of them adorned in tattered brown cloaks that spilled over their sides in disarray. Starrk's head remained still, not content, but simply apprehension. His face was timid, and his eyes slanted and shot downward. He cared not for the slaughtering around them. Meanwhile, the smaller female scowled and her eyes shot about. They widened, she breathed slowly, and then turned to the man beside her for reassurance. Two..maybe three..hundred dotted the land in mere wake of the duo's resurgence, choked by rippling waves of silent yet energy well beyond grasp. High above the desert sands, even towering constructs tumbled, creeping downward slowly and crashing into ground, hopelessly left as an ingrained piece of trash. Extermination, genocide, all possible terms for the concurring slaughter, yet none could fit the glimpse of murder held moments ago. Still, smattered Hollow left no trace; blood, limbs and otherwise seeped into the void, vanished at the seams and leveled off until nothing was left. "...T-They're dying...Starrk..." the short woman confirmed, to no response. Draped in rags, the duo continued their pace along a streak of paved sand. Hidden by the clothing, a frown drew onto his face toward the destruction that wrought his appearance. "...Yes, Lilynette" he answered, moments later, in a deep voice. It carried reassurance, serenity, but also underlacing fear, compulsion, desperation and lastly, woe. Starrk's eyes remained fixated in front of him, but Lilynette's gaze became transfixed on the unchanged glare of Starrk. Her innocent eyes flickered toward the elder, "...Starrk. Tell me a story, Starrk?" Her general eccentric nature concealed by explosive sadness, even though, Starrk knew that she would not ask nicely again. Still, he was bored, so he waited a minute before answering, provoking a twitching brow and scowl from Lilynette. An enroaching storm obscured their view; it sliced through the silence with a hiss and parted the ground like a fresh new wound. It stretched from horizon to horizon, suddenly amassed it swept away the land; demolishing and shredding anything in its path. Unfazed, the duo contined, pierced through the wave of dust and debris with a shallow gaze and lacking interest. Slowly, the dim light diminished, few patches of light scattered here and there but mostly, it was dark. The moon was ecplised by the pulsating storm. "Stories aren't fun. Most stories are predicatable and not amusing. Plus, I'm not a good story-teller." he explained, not the slightest bit of interest toward the torn landscape. Unimpeded, Lilynette sustained, hastily, she responded. "Flare it up than." Her tongue was sharp as she spoke. Behind them, the storm withdrew and lashed out, collapsing the area and immersing the two within a sudden thick, dense fog contrasting their thin shell of emotions. A brief silence arose once more, before Starrk responded. "I can't think of anything" he rebuked, his callous hand scratching his head. "Told you, I'm not good at this." His voice was a pleading tone, his form of implying without insisting failed to work, just as always. "Tell me the one about the past, Starrk." she stated monotonically, like she was reading off a paper. Quite peculiar for the norm for Lilynette. Though, maybe her solemn gaze or the brief swerve and apt meeting of eyes led him to speak. "Fine" he motioned for the ground and fell to the sand in a crouched manner, his arm slouched to the ground and his back lazily arced forward. He gingerly rested his elbow on his knee, yawned, and waited. Just as he anticipated, Lilynette followed exactly. Though, she patted the ground before leaning beside Starrk. Both of them briefly drew a timid smile of expiation before it faded into a blank expression. The soft patter of their footsteps echoed before coming to a deft halt. "Lilynette. This is the third time you heard this." Lilynette fiddled with her fingers while she waited, knowing Starrk would continue. "I guess I'll start at the beginning." As his voice trailed, he laid back on the sand, regretfully, he began to tell his tale: It was Feudal Japan, summer rays of scorching light streaked across the sky and brought an unsteady, but colorful shine into the ordinary blue sky. It was hot and humid. The occasional cloud failed to blockade the bearing heat, rapidly and voraciously lighting the heavens and earth with amber. Sweat draped down in droves as a man of fairly tan skin, firm and tall build, and pleasant eyes. He coughed violently, but continued with his work. He was outside building-- no, repairing a fence around his farmland. This man fathered five children - two girls and three boys, and cared for a dearing, beloved, faithful wife. Both his daughters, merry and rambunctious hopped into their fathers lap, who sat down, marred with dirt on his arms and face. They kissed him pleasantly on the cheek, warming his face moreso than any sun could ever do. His sons' strolled in happily, assisting in the repair. His wife came last, beautiful auburn hair, she swayed into full bloom with a glass of water in her hand. The man muttered to himself and hugged his wife. With certainty, he was happy. Truly a handy-man; from a day with agriculture, he flew to the kitchen, from there to writer, blacksmith, tailoring and so on. Money was scarce however, limited in there province by a discret tyrant who led forces in every day or so. They, his lackeys, restrained any hope of rebellion, crushed and stomped into the dirt, this tyrant seemingly would stand the test of time. The man was scribing a poetry onto paper near a tree one day, his family in the house while soldiers came to greet him. Abrasive and aggravated, they spat and cursed - surrounded and threatened, they moved as a single intimidating unit. The man continued on writing. The man moved closer, threatening his life, his family - they sought payment. Still, the man was resilent; withstanding their electrifying tirade. Blood smattered their formal regalia, complimenting their judgemental stare. The man was fed up. He was not angry, but compelled. He could not pay the man, so the militia, as they were called, promised they would kill his family. They rapidly vanished afterword. Now, the man was not fazed; in fact, he was content. He was by no means a coward nor a fool; he was a handy-man, as his wife nicknamed. He was one of those few who had a knack for everything, and learned easily to add. Now, this man knew his family would not be frightened, everyone in the family knew his labor was top-notch, next to none. The militia had no nobility, no honor. They spat on ideals and treasured pillaging and violence. By candlelight, the man informed his family of his meeting with the angry militia, and annonced that his payment would not be enough, no matter his profession. Only being in the militia would quench and prevent these savages. Knowing this for years, the man reassured his family that he would do such for them. He eluded the dangers and refused to be tentative. He outstretched his hand, his callous palm gingerly rubbing the face of his wife and children. Once among the militia, payment came with ease. He avoided conversation among fellow soldiers, those of which who enjoyed what they had done, are doing. The man, conflicted but ensuring his families safety, showed grit as he plundered and pillaged, killed the innocent and threatened the weak. His underlying reluctance to do so was evident with all, but nonetheless, he must do what needed to be done. One day, the mans youngest son was glee-filled to greet the father, who was away for weeks at a time. Curious, but afraid, the son questioned his fathers work ethic, only to be responded by compelling anger and fury. The father generated compulsion and contradiction, reiterating no matter the injustice, it was to protect them, his pride, love, family. The shimmering undeniable love of of his wife gradually worsened over time, her love became fleeting. For years, the man worked with the militia, traveling and enacting many cruelties but sustaining payment for his family. His childs attended school and his wife remained content with this love charade. Then something happened, for months now, the tyrant who once ruled was now being threatened by a province across the river. This second army threatened the damaged stability with ambushes, and thefts. However, infuriated by insubordination, the tyrant demanded that his troops slaughter the province in the midst of night, using the mountain to the west for cover. Anticipating the same, the tyrant promoted the man. His elavated status were thanks to his many talents that came seamlessly. Productive, the man defended the tyrant through the night and found himself doing such for over a year; having began a war with his planned slaughter. The man ascended and found himself directly as a bodyguard to the Lord tyrant, who, won the war in the span of a year. However, in this year, like became rubble; the man lost his virtue and his family had sought him as terrible. His wife saw him as foolish, and selfish. His daughters remained angry and abandoned. His sons despised his act of leaving the family and regarded him as a changed man. It was true, he was different from before. Before long, the man was not returning home. He was working day in and out. What he thought defended his family caused his family to abandon him. His love, his pride. Gone. They had moved on, and so had time; time dealt the tyrant death through old age, and the man attained his throne. Yet, he found himself considerably aged. His stubble grew to a thick beard and his muscles became flat as he found himself in the throne. His wife had moved on to a new lover as well as his daughters and son. He became king to protect the thing that he cared most highly of. The man became old; his bones creaked like door hinges with every movement; his eyes became weary and his muscles exhausted and strained. His accursed talents let him arise to such a position, leading an entire province with an iron-claw rule that invoked fear into the men of the world. He cleansed himself of his sanctity, leaving his throne and castle walls; having fallen into the deepest chasm any man can fathom - solitude. His family left him, or maybe he left them. The man swore to the gods, damned them for his talents, his life. He wishes his family back, for time to somehow go in reverse. But, the gods refused as he had already carved his own path. ''It is believed that this man still roams the planet. Suicide, disease, wounds and age. The god given talent had made him impenetrable and everlasting. His solitude and despair worsening with each passing century. Families, comrades, teammates, all fallen while he remained. His spirit roamed, living a fate worse than Hell; a living curse. '' "He casted his talents aside, but nothing could do such a thing, over time, his blessed and accursed abilities were needed: for good or evil was not the conviction, but for, well, sanity. Being alone...it really gets to ya, Lilynette, this is the story of a man, an entity: Coyote Starrk and Lilynette Gingerbuck."